The Sultan's Seal: A Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  He reached his hand down for me, but I struggled to my feet unaided. My stomach heaved at the thought of his touch. My parasol was covered with pine needles. When I lifted it, the needles showered my hand in a caress. The forest forgives me, I thought.

  I straightened myself to face Amin Efendi. His hands were clasped behind his back, eyes unfocused, lips parted slightly, as if reliving a pleasurable moment. I cast the tip of my parasol deep into his right eye.

  26

  Salt, Not Sweet

  “Yes, this might belong…have belonged to Mary. I think I saw her wear one like it.” Sybil holds up the soiled blouse. They are sitting at the broad kitchen table, its rough wood worn concave by decades of scrubbing. Sybil led him here without thinking when he said he had something to show her, then asked the servants to leave and close the door. It seemed somehow appropriate that the kitchen be the scene of revelations.

  Her voice cracks just enough for Kamil to see that, beneath her calm manner, she is aware that it is death she is touching, the last moments of Mary Dixon. He fights his desire to hold her in his arms as he has done Feride. She has much in common with her, he thinks. A kind, dutiful daughter dealing alone with a difficult father absent in mind and feeling. Spirited and intelligent. A modern woman with Ottoman virtues. A good wife for the right man. It is permissible for a Muslim man to marry a giavour woman, but he does not care about such rules anyway. He will marry or not as he pleases, and marry whom he pleases. He takes a deep breath, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets, and leans back in his chair. The fingers of his right hand tangle in the chain of amber beads, while his other hand closes around the cool metal of his pocket watch. In any case, he thinks with guilty relief, her family would never approve. He is aware that Europeans distrust a Muslim man, no matter whether he wears a fez or a top hat.

  Sybil lets the blouse drop to the table. It is not ripped or soiled, but badly crumpled, as if it had been wadded up wet and dried inside the rocky niche. Its pearl buttons are intact. Life, Kamil thinks, clings desperately to everything, against all odds. He lets go of the watch and reaches for Sybil’s hand. Sybil’s eyes meet his. They sit unmoving, each unwilling to risk losing the other’s touch by changing anything. Every word, every movement constitutes a risk.

  A knock on the door startles them and their hands fly apart.

  “Miss Sybil, should I make the tea now?”

  “Not now, Maisie.” She struggles to put a cheery tone in her voice, but it comes out hoarse with nervousness. “Later. I’ll ring for you.”

  “Yes, Miss Sybil.” The maid’s footsteps recede down the hall.

  Sybil smiles shyly, no longer willing to meet Kamil’s eyes. Kamil too is smiling, his cup sunk deep in the jar of well-being. One sip, he thinks. Is that enough?

  Suddenly aware of what might now be expected of him, Kamil rises abruptly to his feet.

  “I apologize, Sybil Hanoum. I should go.” He begins gathering up the objects on the table and wraps them in the oiled cloth.

  “No, please don’t go yet.” His abruptness has soured her pleasure. Exasperated that suddenly it is she who is pleading, Sybil points to the table. “We haven’t finished looking at these things.” There is an edge to her voice that halts Kamil’s hands in their frenzied activity.

  He leans forward, props both hands on the table, and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know what to say.

  “Please sit, Kamil Bey.” Sybil regally indicates the chair at his side. “I know you’re very busy, but since you came all this way”—she smiles brightly at him—“I would like to be of help.”

  Kamil sits and, for a brief moment, regards the objects on the table without seeing them, then looks at her. “Thank you, Sybil Hanoum.” He relies on her to know what he means.

  Sybil pulls the cloth bundle nearer, unwraps it again, playing her fingers lightly across the objects assembled there.

  “I don’t know about the shoes, but it seems the type she would wear. She wasn’t terribly fashionable, and this is a common enough shoe in Europe. Turkish ladies, you know, prefer leather slippers, like this one here.” She points to a torn and badly soiled slipper. “Wherever did you find these things?”

  “We found the shoes and the blouse in the forest behind Ismail Hodja’s house in Chamyeri.”

  “These,” she adds, pointing to the hair comb and mirror, “are quite common. They could belong to anyone.” She touches her thumb to the blade of the knife. “Sharp. Was this found with the other things?”

  “These things are from a place north of there.”

  “Do you suspect Ismail Hodja, then?”

  Kamil pauses, then draws a deep breath. “No.”

  Sybil brushes her hand across his sleeve. “Does this help you at all?”

  “It confuses matters. She drowned in salt, not sweet water. But what was she doing at the pond?”

  “Maybe she fell into the Bosphorus and someone hid her clothes at the pond later,” Sybil suggests.

  “We thought we had found the place where she drowned, a sea hamam. It’s closed for the season, but someone used it recently. There was no evidence, though, that anyone was killed there, just a dead dog we found nearby.” He shrugs. “Dogs are everywhere. Who is to say that this particular dog has anything to do with the murder?”

  “Why a dog?”

  “The fishermen heard a dog bark that night.” He smiles wryly. “I know. Not much to go on.”

  “So she could have been pushed into the strait anywhere.”

  “What we really need to know is where she drank the tea that paralyzed her before she was pushed. A young woman like that might have been able to save herself otherwise.”

  “Does datura paralyze you?”

  “It makes it difficult to move your limbs and to breathe. It depends on the dose. People don’t die right away. It can take hours. First their throat becomes dry and they have difficulty swallowing. Their pupils dilate and don’t respond to light. They can become blind. There’s a slow paralysis of the limbs, vertigo, hallucinations. But she didn’t die from that. She drowned.”

  Sybil feels her throat constricting. She does not move, but Kamil notices her pale face and the beads of sweat on her upper lip. He lays his hand on her shoulder.

  “Sybil Hanoum, are you all right? I’m so sorry. That was needlessly graphic. I do apologize.”

  “No, no need to apologize. I want to know.” Sybil’s eyes meet his. “I need to know.”

  The space between them seems to shrink by some formula of physics as yet undiscovered. Their lips meet. Suspended in a universe that begins and ends at the intersection of their skin—until Maisie’s footfalls outside the door repeal the wonder.

  27

  The Smell of Roses

  I felt numb and somehow relieved. After I had stumbled out of the forest onto the grounds, the women who had gathered for the picnic led me to the pasha’s garden house and laid me on a chaise. They crouched around me, their whispering voices lilting with concern, hissing with curiosity. I remember Violet’s brown face leaning over me. One of the women sprinkled my hands and face with rosewater. The smell of roses made me feel ill and the rosewater, as it fell, burned my skin. I remember twisting violently to get away from it and the silver ewer crashing to the ground. The smell became overpowering and I vomited. Then I finally slid into the blackness that had been waiting invitingly at the edge of my vision.

  I woke to a man’s face by my chest and started back with fear. The man drew away, but continued to sit in the chair by my side. Violet sat grimly on my other side, clutching my hand. I turned and smiled at her. The world was only as deep as the people standing beside me.

  The man was clean-shaven, making his face look like that of a child, but his voice was low and assured. He spoke with a pronounced French accent.

  “I am the pasha’s physician. You need not be concerned. You are safe now.”

  I stared at him. I was safe? I began to remember. Had they found him? Would I be arrested? />
  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Would anyone believe me?

  “Amin Efendi.”

  “He has been taken to hospital. He was unable to tell us anything. Were you attacked by thieves?” His face betrayed anxiety that brig-ands were nearby and had penetrated the pasha’s pleasure gardens.

  The pain spread outward from my loins until I glowed with it. It made me feel strangely powerful. I told him everything.

  I WAS BROUGHT home, put directly to bed, and sedated with a tincture of opium. Violet lingered downstairs. The pasha himself came, she told me, along with his doctor. Papa stood frozen by the door. Aunt Hüsnü leaned against the mantelpiece. The pasha apologized that such a terrible thing had happened while Papa’s family had been under his protection. Violet said that when they finished, Papa tried to say something in response, but was unable to speak. The two men helped him to a chair and brought him a glass of brandy. Aunt Hüsnü’s expression, however, did not change, Violet noted. When the men had settled Papa into his chair and had managed to calm him somewhat, Aunt Hüsnü offered them refreshments. They declined and, embarrassed and confused as to what else to do, took their leave.

  WHEN I WOKE, I found Papa sitting on the divan, looking out my window, smoking with a soldier’s intensity. The glass tray beside him was full of cigarette stubs. When he heard the bedcovers rustle as I attempted to sit up, he turned his face to me, but it was shadowed and I could not read his expression. Did he believe me? Blame me? What would he do now? I was too inexperienced to know what repercussions this would have on Papa, but knew well enough that the honorable standing of a man’s family always affected his career.

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  He did not seem to hear me, so I repeated it more loudly.

  “I’m very sorry, Papa. Please forgive me.”

  Papa stood and walked slowly toward me. He settled himself with a sigh onto the chair next to my bed. His big body in its uniform of dark blue worsted looked too large and out of place in this room of delicate pastel embroideries and doilies. Lace fringe from my bedsheet clung incongruously to his woolen trousers.

  “Jaanan.” He stopped, embarrassed. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

  “Jaanan, I haven’t been able to provide you with a good upbringing,” he said into the smoke. “You’ve grown up wild. I blame myself for that.”

  “But Papa—”

  “You must listen.” His voice had regained the familiar clipped tones of authority, but I could hear the urgency in it. “This family has acquired a formidable enemy. Amin Efendi.” He choked at the title. Efendi is not only a title of honor, but implies an exemplary lifestyle, a man of honor. “He has lost his position at the palace and the support of his patron, but he still has other powerful friends. And he has lost an eye.” Here Papa looked at me curiously. The cigarette dangling between his fingers released arabesques into the air.

  I did not respond, but waited for him to continue.

  “He is not a man to forgive these things. He will work to destroy us.”

  I could not imagine what it meant to be destroyed. I thought of the fish hung by a rope. I began to cry.

  His eyes swept the room as if an object there might rescue him, but saw only the delicate, fragile weavings of a girl’s life, nothing to hold on to. When he turned back to me, I thought the corners of his eyes were moist.

  “It’s not your fault, my daughter. I shouldn’t have forced this marriage on you. I had no idea of this man’s low character. He was highly recommended by all who knew him professionally. Hüsnü Hanoum made inquiries into his character among the women. She assured me they all said he was a kind and generous man.”

  He paused as if something had just occurred to him.

  Frowning, he continued, “I think it best if you went to your mother’s side. You can rest there, while we decide how to proceed.”

  He patted my hand without looking at my face, then got up and strode quickly out of the room.

  28

  July 9, 1886

  Dearest sister,

  If it is not too much of an imposition on the bond between you and your husband, I would ask that this letter remain between us. I am in need of advice from you. There is no one here I can ask or trust. How I miss Mother. I’m sure she would have been able to guide me. No, there is nothing seriously amiss, although I am feeling quite dislocated these past few days. I find myself spending altogether too much time thinking about Kamil Pasha, the magistrate I mentioned before. After all, despite his civilized demeanor, he is an infidel and I have no right to imagine a life that would cast any aspersions on Father’s career. Kamil Pasha has not stated his case for me in so many words—he is not given to rambling protestations—but his meaning is clear. What shall I do, dearest Maitlin? It is impossible to say I will not see him again—he comes here on official business regarding the murder of Mary Dixon. I have never before felt such attraction. It is quite as if I were astride an uncontrollable horse where my only choice is to follow his lead or to fall off at great pain to myself. Is this what happened between you and Richard?

  But my real fear is that I might shame Father. I am filled with self-loathing that such thoughts should even enter my mind. I am speaking of marriage, of course, Maitlin. I would not countenance anything else, regardless of the attraction. We all have seen what happens to young women who are too eager to give up their only asset and find themselves devalued before society. I am less concerned with society for my sake, but much more for Father’s sake. He could not do his work here if there were any taint of scandal. And there is the question of religion—the scandal of his daughter marrying a heathen would do almost as much damage.

  Lately, Bernie has been spending the night. He says he has put his writing project on hold for the moment, that he needs time to rethink his approach. I’m so glad he has decided to stay here. I do so enjoy his company and welcome the diversion during the long evenings. I have for some time suffered from loneliness, particularly at night, something I never shared with you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. That loneliness is now accentuated by the absence of someone whose figure does not even fit into the composition of my life, at least as it has been painted by British and Ottoman society. There is a stubborn strain in the women of our family, a deep need to alter the frame into which we have been placed. But I cannot sacrifice Father to that temptation. You know of what I speak.

  I look to you, my wise and dear sister, for advice.

  Ever yours,

  Sybil

  SYBIL PUTS DOWN her pen and, taking the sheer white veil from the bed, sits before a mirror and pins it to her hair, snugging it against her forehead. She flings the veil over her head so that it hangs like flowing hair down her back and laughs. The laughter bubbles from deep inside, from a place Sybil has not realized was hers. The veil is nothing, a bagatelle, if by wearing it she will be able to move in society by Kamil’s side.

  But she doesn’t believe he will require her to wear it. She pictures a house, one of those lovely Ottoman confections overlooking the Bosphorus. She will decorate its rooms in Oriental style—flowered carpets, damask cushions, velvet drapes—with enough chairs and couches to host the receptions she is sure will be part of her role as wife of a high Ottoman government official. One could say, she thinks, that she has been training for this role all her life. She will also help Kamil with his work, as she has helped her father. She could be his eyes and ears among the women. Finding Shukriye, a witness to the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, will prove her worth.

  In her mind, Sybil populates her new house with children, a son and a daughter, and her dear nephews. Perhaps they would choose to stay. The boys could attend Robert College, in its forested eyrie high above the Bosphorus. Surely once they had seen it, they would want to stay. Maitlin could start a hospital for women. Richard would agree, as he always has. Perhaps he could hold an embassy post, finally take the reins from her exhaus
ted father. And Bernie would be here, a familiar face.

  A pleasant thought suddenly strikes her. They could all live on adjoining properties as Turkish families do. When Turks marry, they move into houses next to those of their parents and siblings. Their children grow up slipping through hedges that divide one garden from the next.

  As she thinks of children, Sybil blushes. She pulls the veil across her face and sits heavily on the bed. Kamil’s physical presence, the memory of his lips heavy and demanding on her own, overwhelms her senses like a tidal wave. The timbre of his voice thrums in her a desire to submit that, in her capable persona, she would never reveal. Beneath the veil, within that narrow, lush chamber of solitude, she feels unfettered. Nana would say, running with sap.

  29

  Visions

  Kamil sits on a cushioned bench under a trellis of jasmine in the garden of his mother’s house, reading Reese’s Manual of Toxicology, which he has borrowed from Michel with the excuse that it would help him with his investigations. Kamil has always taken satisfaction from knowing exactly how things work. But his reading today is in the service of a more uncertain project, his father. Opium poisoning, he reads, leaves few consistent clues in the body after death. The pupils are often contracted, but may also be dilated. Death may be sudden, or staved off altogether, depending on whether the stomach was full or empty, how many grains of opium were administered, and whether the poison was in liquid form or solid, as tincture of laudanum or crystals of morphia. But a drop of starch diluted by iodic acid will identify a residue of only one ten-thousandth of a grain of morphia by turning blue. There is nothing in the book about weaning a man from the habit of opium.

  Sparks of light from the strait give the garden an air of motion and exuberance that intensifies its tranquillity. One of Kamil’s most vivid childhood memories is of the delicate, colorful crocheted butterflies edging the cotton scarf draped loosely over his mother’s hair. When she leaned over his father to serve him tea, the butterflies vibrated in the breeze and seemed to be trying to lift the scarf away from her face.